


Place a call

by geminiangel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7892188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geminiangel/pseuds/geminiangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was feeling a bit down lately and was playing a bunch of old songs.  I stumbled over Jim Croce's "Operator." I got to thinking that that song wouldn't be written in today's cellphone era and wondered how the scene would go.  Next thing I know, I have this.</p><p>There are a lot of great songs that wouldn't be in the modern times.  If you  think of one shout it out, please.</p><p>Here's a quarter call someone who cares - Travis Tritt<br/>26 cents - The Wilkins<br/>Operator, Operator - Eddy Raven</p>
            </blockquote>





	Place a call

“You quit drinking, you’re doing good. Don’t screw it up…”

“Look, Diana. Just get me the number.”

“It’ll just…”

“I need it, Diana.” She slid onto the barstool. “Just get it, please.”

“It would only…”

“Look, there’s something I have to tell Keith. Get me the number.”

“Fine.” The voice on the other end said abruptly. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be.” A beer and a shot showed up on the bar in front of her. With a nod of thanks, she took a sip of the cold beer. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“No, just text it to me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Jess…”

“I’m okay.” Punching the off button, Jess laid it down on the bar. 

“I figured I couldn’t go wrong with your usual.” The bartender stepped closer to her. 

“Recognized me, then?”

“You come in every time, you do a show here in town. Always order the same thing. Been a while.”

“Not my favorite town anymore.”

“Figured. Your phone’s going off.” He pointed to the flashing phone.

Jess picked it up. “Got to take this call.” She pointedly bypassed the shot and took a long drink of beer. 

“I’ll grab you another beer while you’re talking.”

“You don’t… Second thought, thanks.” She connected the call. “Miles. Guess you’ve heard from Diana.”

“Keith doesn’t need you tearing up his life. He and … He’s doing good. His career is taking off again.”

“I know he and Vay are still together, Miles. It’s old news. If you remember, I found out first.” Jess said dryly.

“As Keith’s agent and business manager, I know there is nothing you need to discuss.”

“I need to talk to him.” 

“No, you don’t. Just leave him alone.” 

Jess drained her beer. “I could turn it over to a private eye and have them dig up the number but you know how the tabloid sheets blow stuff out of proportion. I hate to go to all that hassle just to get in touch with him but…”

“Got a pen?”

Jess scrambled for a pen and found one handed to her along with a matchbook. Scribbling down the number, Jess read it back. “Thanks, Miles.”

“Don’t destroy his life again.”

“You mean, like he did mine?” Jess pushed the button shutting off his reply. “Thanks.” She gave the bartender back his pen. “A matchbook?”

“Old tradition.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s the best thing to use when burning an old memory. No, I wasn’t eavesdropping.” He pointed to a picture on the wall by the cash register.

“Is that...?”

“Yep.” He wiped at the bar. “Eight years ago, you and Keith stopped by before the show. Keith didn’t want bothered before the show but you said you’d stop by after the show and take a picture. You came in alone. Keith had begged off due to a headache.”

The bartender drifted to the other end of the bar leaving her to her memories, memories that had been gnawing at her. Too many nights of drinking had been taking a toll and she had managed to stop at one drink after the show that night. She hadn’t bothered calling a ride, but took the long walk back to the bus. She wanted to be sober for the talk she and Keith needed to have. Finding lights on in the bedroom and the sounds of love through the door. Finding her husband and her best friend. The plot to so many songs playing out in front of her. 

Her fingers toyed with the shot glass. Eight years. Hard to believe really. She remembered storming off the bus and walking the quiet streets. Finally returned just as the sun rose. They had been dressed and waiting. There was another matchbook with a number. She remembered Keith flipping it on the table and telling her that she could call him there when she was ready to talk and get help. Hearing him blame her drinking and their fights for his affair. Listening to her best friend excuse her role by saying she was the only person Keith had to talk to about Jess’ drinking. 

Hadn’t he hated Vay? He had claimed to when and Jess were fighting and the two of them had a bunch of fights. Those fights had been what made Jess realize they needed help. After Keith and Vay had left, Jess had grabbed a bottle from the cabinet and cancelled her appointment for rehab. She spent the next seven years drinking and pretending. It was so easy, especially when you could pretend you had drowned the memories. Picking up the shot glass, Jess downed it. Was this really the first one in ten months? 

Laying the matchbook flat, she picked up her cell and dialed the number Miles had grudgingly given her. Holding it to her ear she listened as the phone began to ring. 

“Hello?” Jess closed her eyes as she heard Keith’s bass voice on the line. “Hello? Is anyone there? Jess? Is that you?” Trust Miles to call him first.

Pulling the phone away, she ended the call and waved the bartender over. He set another shot on the bar in front of her. “You know a lot about me. Probably know who I was calling.”

“Eight years is a long time to hold a grudge. Figure you were ready to let it go. Wanted to let them know you were doing okay now. Forgive them.”

Jess didn’t confirm or deny his guess. “You knew I wasn’t drinking anymore. Why the beer and shot?”

“I recognized the look. Calls like that aren’t easy to make. But sometimes to go forwards you have to go back. And sometimes you find what you thought was there, never really was.”

“Guess you’re right. Hand me that photo.”

The bartender removed the push pen and brought it to her. “What’s your name?”

“Wade.”

Borrowing his pen, she wrote on the back. ‘To Wade, Thanks for the advice. Next time I can’t move forward, I’ll remember to go back first. Love, Jess Reynolds.’ Pausing, she looked at him. “Hey, what time you off tonight?”

“I’m here until closing.”

“Can you get someone to cover?”

“I could try.”

She wrote across the bottom. ‘Phil, this is Wade an old friend. Find him a good seat! Jess.’ “If you can get coverage, come to the back, ask for Phil Waters. He’ll take care of you.”

Jess handed back the picture and looked at the clock. She stood and tossed a couple bills in the bar. “I’ve gotta run.”

“Your phone is ringing.” He pointed at the phone she had left on the bar. 

Picking it up, she looked at the incoming number. Now that she thought about it, there really wasn’t anything she needed to say to them. She dropped it in her beer and then tossed back the shot. “Hope to see you. It’s going to be one hell of a show.”

 

The headlines screamed the news. On television, a prominent doctor was interviewed. Medical treatment of aneurysms had come a long way, but sometimes there just wasn’t anything that could be done. In those cases, the patient often chose to just keep living their life. Diana Ballinger, the agent who had flew in immediately was interviewed in the local hotel. It was she who stated that the doctor had been immediately been contacted by the band leader and had also flown there. No, the band leader had not known about the aneurysm, just that he had promised that if anything happened he would immediately call that number. The doctor confirmed that he had been in touch with the local medical examiner and provided medical records and a statement signed by his patient. There would be no autopsy.

Ballinger stated firmly that no funeral arrangements would be released until they were finalized, but there had been an envelope in the doctor’s possession for her. No, she had not been told about the medical issue. In lieu of any next of kin, the legal papers were authorizing her to handle the arrangements. No, she would not discuss anything pertaining to a will until after the funeral. 

A bartender who had been in the front row said softly that it was the best show he’d ever seen. She had stopped by for a soda at the bar before the show. No, of course, she hadn’t been drinking anything but ginger ale. He had served it in a mug. It was a quick stop for old time’s sake. After autographing a picture that had been taken of them the last time, she had offered him a ticket to the show. He was so glad he had gone. 

It had been an unbelievable show according to many of the people who attended the concert. It was like she was just singing for the joy of it; feeding on the audience response and just showing sheer happiness. The backstage manager was on talking about her coming off following her encore; how she had been smiling brightly and had stopped when he complimented her; how she had just frozen; the quick flash of pain on her face and then her falling; just crumbling to the ground and how the emergency responders and the police crowded around her. 

With the exception of the doctor, it seemed everyone had one thing in common; shock. How could something like this happen? Why weren’t there signs? Why hadn’t anyone been told? The bartender thought back to the phone he had fished out of the beer mug. After the show, after the news, he had taken a hammer to the phone. He had removed the card and placed it in an old ashtray next to the matchbook with the number she had written. He had burned the matchbook and melted the card. 

In LA, two people drank coffee together; not talking as they watched the television coverage. Calls from the tabloids and press went unanswered. Outside their home, a mob of reporters was growing. There were already people there with nasty signs. People who remembered what happened eight years ago. Their agent was pacing on the balcony talking into his cell. Quick glances were exchanged but neither knew what to say to each other; but then they hadn’t known what to say the night before either.


End file.
